


On His Majesty's Secret Service

by eyeus



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spy, Espionage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:36:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeus/pseuds/eyeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a question of limits, and a fine line that John treads in the struggle to balance his duties and his burgeoning affection for his flatmate. AU where John is a retired spy recruited for one final mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Infiltrate

**Author's Note:**

> Title is both shamelessly borrowed from the Bond movie and an allusion to Sherlock’s jibe of Mycroft being a ‘queen’ in S2E01. The case that appears in the fic is based on the one **[here](http://www.observergroup.net/ob116back/stories.htm)**.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Your mission," the voice states, "involves the infiltration of this man's life."

 

***

 

One never really leaves the Service. 

John always finds his way back to it, one way or another. Sometimes it finds _him_. 

And sometimes it kidnaps him just as he’s leaving his dreary bedsit with nary an exchanged pleasantry, and transports him to a cramped office at a construction site. Just to receive a mission briefing. 

The Service _does_ enjoy dramatics like that on occasion. If it even _is_ them. 

As the sleek black car he travelled here in departs, he’s ushered into the darkened room, its ceiling adorned by a single fluorescent tube. He doesn’t feel like a hostage, nor is he under immediate threat, but for all the secrecy surrounding this latest mission, he might as well be. 

With a small measure of willpower, John quashes that thought. He should be grateful for this opportunity. 

The last mission hadn’t gone so well; while masquerading as a medic in Afghanistan in order to retrieve a sensitive file, he’d been shot by a cleverly hidden sniper and invalided home instantly. Reason: a shattered shoulder, which even Britain’s finest surgeons could do little about, and a supposedly shattered psyche, rectified by a therapist who suggested mundane activities as “blogging” to relieve accumulated PTSD from his years in the Service.

There’s a word for people like him. The public calls it _retired_. The Service calls it _repatriated_. 

John calls it _abandoned_ , though he’d been thinking of resigning anyway. Only, “retirement” turned out to be four walls and whole lot of time he didn’t know what to do with. But now, there’s a chance to fuel his adrenaline urges again, and—well, it’s not as if he has a choice anyway.

The provenance of this second chance remains suspect, however; the people in the car explained that the remainder of his contract was bought out, not by an organization, but a single man. From what he’s heard in certain circles, however, it might as well be an organization. Rumors claim the man heads MI6, his own ex-agency, while other whispers weaving through the grapevine say he occupies a minor position in the British government.

Still, they must want him for _something_ , or he wouldn’t be here.

They leave him in the room, seated on the single chair. He’s surprised at the lack of identification procedures—rudimentary fingerprint or retinal scans and the like. Maybe they’ve decided that he hardly poses as a threat since he’s been invalided home. It’s probably the same reason why his mission briefing is in some dingy basement instead of a crisp office at Vauxhall Cross. 

A door opens into the gloom of the room, and a slow shuffle of steps approaches, punctuated by the _tap_ of an umbrella point. The steps stop a few paces away, enough to capture the shadowed outline of a three piece suit, an umbrella, and immaculately polished shoes. A disembodied voice addresses him—by his number, as per protocol, never his name—and he’s handed a thin envelope, the color of burnt umber.

“Your mission, should you choose to accept it,” the voice states, “involves the infiltration of this man’s life. Document his comings and goings. Make note of all contacts, friends and acquaintances. Memorize his habits, mannerisms and anything else of importance.” 

_Good lord._ John’s already wincing internally at the opening line. _Taking cues from sub-par American spy movies?_

He teases the crisp edge of a photograph from the envelope, breath catching in his throat at the sight; the subject is tall, with high cheekbones and eyes so leached of color they appear almost grey. The shock of dark, unruly hair makes him seem a wild creature, both beautiful and fey.

“This man,” John inquires, trying to swallow inaudibly. “Is he an operative for another country? How dangerous is he?” He assesses the picture and frowns; the subject doesn’t look armed, but John wonders if he’s got a signature style of attack that’s indiscernible from the photo.

The only response is a throaty laugh from the man in the shadows. “That information is on a need-to-know basis. You’ll be given further information as it pertains to your mission.”

What he _does_ receive is the name of the supposed mark, however: Sherlock Holmes.

Other details are given: how he’ll be introduced to the man and when (by another retired operative, going by the name of Stamford), how the mission will involve his more latent abilities (John has to chuckle at that, as it means he’ll be needed for his ‘medical know-how’ again) and pertinent information standard with any mission.

It’s the last detail that catches his attention. He clears his throat. “Could you repeat that, please?”

“The alias you will be assuming for this mission is _John_.”

It’s nothing he didn’t know; his own name, simple and unassuming. Neither unique, nor one for challenging authority. But the surname—

“Watson.”

At this, he almost starts, though he has enough control over his own body for it to only appear like a nervous tic. “John…Watson?”

He’s being given use of his name for this mission, his _real_ name, before any of this started, before he became an invisible force for Queen and country. Suddenly, the enormity of the situation crashes down on him: this will be his last and final mission, because he’s no longer a three digit number, or John-appended-with-a-serial-number—he’s John _Watson_ again and this will be the closest mission he’ll ever have to civilian life.

 

***

 

Arranging the initial meeting with Sherlock Holmes is the easy part.

John’s discovered that the operative named “Stamford” is his old school mate Mike, who’s more than willing to play his part in the charade despite his quips about the Service. He brings John to the lab at St Bart’s, the hospital in which John trained, before his recruitment into the shadows of political influence and intrigue.

Upon stepping into the lab, John instantly makes his own assessment of Sherlock Holmes: he’s a handsome but useless academic type, with posh clothes likely tailor-made, probably born into money; his fingers are too pale and slim, belonging to hands that have never held a gun. It wouldn’t do to dismiss Holmes ( _Sherlock_ , John thinks, _familiarize yourself_ ) completely, though. Never underestimate the mark.

He doesn’t hesitate to ingratiate himself to the man, lending him his phone while continuing his assessment, before he’s distracted by “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I know you’re an army doctor,” Sherlock begins, and suddenly John’s own assessment of him is blown away in comparison to his potential flatmate’s, as the man reels off details about Afghanistan, an alcoholic brother (sister, really, but John’s kept her phone out of sentiment— _stupid_ ) and a psychosomatic limp. Besides the last two items, Sherlock’s managed to parse out the complete details of John’s cover story in Afghanistan. 

_He’s good_ , John decides, even if Sherlock hasn’t caught the traces of British operative that John’s taken pains to hide. Gathering that much detail, and only within seconds of their meeting. He can’t help but wonder who this man’s been trained by, or if he’s a rogue agent the SIS wants to keep tabs on. John represses a shiver of anticipation, wondering if he’ll actually have an opportunity to work with this man. 

The intelligence they could gather; the phenomenal _team_ they would make.

“That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” Sherlock’s sudden pause startles John out of his reverie, and he’s more than surprised to realize that he’s been standing there mesmerized by Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock flashes him a faux grin designed for swapping social niceties, all awkward lines around his mouth and eyes. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” he nods, “and the address is 221 B Baker Street.”

With a dramatic flourish of his coat, Sherlock shuts the door, and John’s left standing there in a mixture of wonder and disbelief. Not shock, as he’s performed retrieval missions of child geniuses and dueled with chess prodigies for missile launch codes, but still.

“He’s always like that,” Mike offers, with his characteristic cherub grin. His eyes are wide and round behind his spectacles, as if he’s equally awestruck by this Sherlock Holmes character. John nods absently, bidding him good day. As he limps out of the lab, he thinks Mike was right to leave the Service; he wouldn’t have lasted much longer, all pink and pudgy, his soft edges the telltale sign of a sedentary lifestyle.

Dismissing these thoughts, he decides that there must be more to Sherlock than his file provides, so when John returns to his bedsit, he runs a search on him through the Internet and combs his own special archive (copied verbatim from the SIS via an undetectable piggyback program). 

Which is when he discovers that Sherlock has untraceable origins, and either an excellent cover story of his own, or a talent for wasting his intellect on a mere hobby.

If his sources are to be trusted. Sherlock Holmes is neither a former spy nor agent for MI6. 

He’s a consulting detective. Whatever that is. 

Eyeing the title of Sherlock’s website, _The Science of Deduction_ warily, John begins to read.

 

***

 

221 B on Baker Street turns out to be a small, unassuming flat in central London. Within moments of his arrival, John slips a miniature audio bug into the skull on the mantelpiece. And while Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, is busy puttering about the flat and hinting at the other bedroom upstairs (if they’ll be _needing_ two bedrooms), he affixes a camera in the bookcase overlooking a table. A quick, surreptitious glance through the rest of the flat shows him other potential places for surveillance equipment, but he decides to leave it at the two; too many would be conspicuous, and Sherlock is nothing if not observant. 

Two poisoned pills, one dead cabbie, and several weeks later, John’s formed a more detailed impression of the man he’s supposed to be observing. He calls this entry in his mental database _Assessment of Sherlock’s Abilities_. It reads as follows:

_Would make a terrible operative. Has unparalleled observational skills, excellent grasp of chemistry and anatomy, but lacks knowledge regarding politics, astronomy and even basic self-preservation skills._

Because while Sherlock may be able to identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb, it’s not exactly helpful when he can’t identify a person who’s out to murder him. In fact, on their first night as flatmates (or mark and assassin, John hasn’t puzzled that out quite yet), he even has to kill to save Sherlock. 

After all, surveillance can only go so far when the object of it ceases to live. 

Sherlock also has a tendency to run headlong into trouble, often brandishing the gun he’s lifted from John’s bedside table, while John’s spent most of his life doing covert operations. The word _clandestine_ would be lost on Sherlock, despite the man’s ability to act and charm his way into people’s flats and crime scenes.

In spite of Sherlock’s affinity for rushing into dangerous situations half-cocked, however, John still think Sherlock Holmes makes a _fantastic_ consulting detective. So much so, that he’s decided to re-appropriate his PTSD blog to write about Sherlock’s cases. He leaves out crucial details and changes names, and it seems safe enough that his mysterious employer hasn’t said anything against it. 

Life continues thus: Sherlock Holmes solves crimes and John Watson blogs about them, while discreetly exterminating the flies that threaten Sherlock’s brilliance and hiding the bodies.

They still make a phenomenal team.

 

***

 

“What are you writing about?” 

Sherlock’s head pushes into the space by John’s neck, and John’s caught between irritation that no one has ever taught Sherlock the meaning of personal space, and a touch of sadness, that perhaps no one’s ever tried to approach _Sherlock’s_ personal space.

“Us. The case.” John shifts minutely in his beige jumper. He’s taken care to choose his wardrobe carefully, and now has a collection of unremarkable cardigans and jumpers that are surprisingly comfortable.

“Again?” Sherlock makes a small huffing sound. “I thought you’d have grown tired of cheapening our cases by blogging sensationalist tripe,” he says, before curling up on his grey armchair opposite.

A gentle warmth pulses through John’s chest at Sherlock’s use of the word _our_. There is precious silence for a moment, before Sherlock turns over and flings out a hand to jab John in the knee. 

“Cup of tea,” he demands, before adding, “thanks?” as an afterthought. 

“You’ve got limbs, make your own tea,” John says, not looking up from his laptop (recently hacked into again by Sherlock—thank goodness he’d cleared his browsing history and filled it with unsubtle searches for porn). He’s just changed his password again, though each time he’s careful to keep it generic, nothing to do with his occupation, his mission. All his observations about Sherlock are stored in his head, leaving neither paper nor electronic trail for the detective to stumble upon.

“You’re closer,” comes the nonchalant response. 

“Closer to what?” He follows Sherlock’s gaze. “Oh.” _To the kitchen,_ John supposes, and with a sigh, he sets down the laptop and pads over to the kettle.

With a mug of hot water in hand, he shuffles over to the covered bowl where they keep their sugar and discovers a few pitiful granules clinging to the sides. “Sherlock, we’re out of sugar again.”

“Oh. Right.” From the kitchen, he sees Sherlock’s hand wave in classic prima donna fashion. “I used the last of it for an experiment.”

John shakes his head and walks to the fridge. “Well. At least we’ve got milk,” he manages, before Sherlock bolts upright and steps over the table to get to the kitchen. 

“Wait, _no_. Don’t touch the milk, I’m incubating—”

With a quick twist of his hand, John shuts the door to the fridge. “Right, okay. I’m…going to go buy some sugar and milk. And _don’t_ use it to incubate anything this time.” Sherlock nods, but John knows the milk is only safe until Sherlock’s next flight of experiment fancies. 

“Get some crisps too,” Sherlock calls, returning to his armchair.

“I just bought some yesterday, don’t tell me you’ve…”

Sherlock rummages under the chair and fans out his collection of empty crisp packets like a hand of winning cards. “They were readily available,” he says, a pout in his voice, as if he can’t understand why John would chastise him for actually eating. He holds the packets out in offering, fixing John with an imploring look.

“Fine.” John rolls his eyes, but it’s only to hide the quick grin he has at the thought of Sherlock eating without prompting.

As he shrugs his jacket on and heads down the stairs, he can see Sherlock settle on the armchair again, with a triumphant smirk. John shakes his head again, his fond smile resurfacing, until he remembers he still needs to make his first monthly report. 

There isn’t much to disclose, besides the fact that Sherlock still eats the dietary equivalent of an anorexic runway model and still coerces John into doing the legwork he doesn’t want to. 

Oh, and _The Cases_. Yes, there are those, and plenty of them.

 

***

 

After getting the shopping, John makes a call at a phone booth near the Tesco’s. Soon enough, a black car arrives, sliding effortlessly to a stop against the curb. It takes him to an obscure car park several minutes away, and though John feels a little self-conscious hefting a bag of grocery with him to the meeting, at least he’ll have a ride home.

Living with Sherlock has reduced him to becoming practical to an extreme—they can’t _both_ be squandering the month’s rent on cab fare.

“You’re certainly looking better, John,” comes a familiar voice from behind a parked car. There’s the telltale _step-step-tap_ of his employer again, and this time, John can see the entirety of the person he works for: impeccably dressed as last time, but now with noticeable frown lines and a receding hairline.

John fights the urge to wince; he knows how he must have looked before. Newly injured, emaciated and on tenterhooks about his future as an operative, before being given this new purpose. By “M”, as he’s taken to calling his employer in his mind, because his attitude exudes the reek of old money and most of all, _mystery_.

“Your findings, please.”

Digging deep into his mental database, John relates the different cases that Sherlock has solved (numerous), his contacts (fewer), his interpersonal skills (abysmal), and other habits he’s noticed while posing as Sherlock’s flatmate. It’s been agreed that his report will be entirely verbal, as John has long since informed his employer that Sherlock has a tendency to hack into John’s laptop and worm through his personal effects like a curious toddler.

“And his sleeping habits? Is he tolerating his meals well?”

John reports that Sherlock takes infrequent naps, and meals more infrequently than that. “Though I _have_ been able to convince him to consume takeaway and tea, on the odd occasion,” he adds. 

He pauses, before pondering the importance of these minor details. It’s odd that his employer would be asking after his surveillance object as one would a worried lover or family member. “Are his…eating and sleeping habits important?” John asks, his brow crinkling involuntarily before he remembers to straighten it out again.

“ _Every_ detail is important, John. That is our agreement,” M replies, each word punctuated carefully. His expression is as neutral as ever.

John nods to himself. Perhaps these mundane details will aid in a quiet, effort-free assassination through prolonged insomnia or starvation.

M seems to have caught his train of thought, and the corner of his mouth quirks upward. “Sherlock Holmes is not a _mark_ , John. Ensure that he maintains some semblance of a normal lifestyle, and continue to assist him in the same capacity that you are now. I’ll expect your report again next month.” He swings his umbrella leisurely as he leaves. “Sooner, if necessary.”

It’s only when John’s back in the black car, en route to Baker Street, that he releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. It’s a sigh of relief, because now he knows Sherlock isn’t a mark, or an assassination target. 

He would’ve been sad to see Sherlock go.

 

***

 

“You certainly took your time,” Sherlock remarks when John returns with the bag of shopping. In addition to the milk he left to buy, there are beans and meat, along with a new carton of eggs. John doesn’t trust the ones in the fridge, because not even eggs are safe from Sherlock’s inquiring mind.

“I had a row with the chip and pin machine,” John replies, rankling at the memory of _card not authorized, please use alternative method of payment_. With the funds available to him, he thinks M could at least provide a piece of plastic that bloody _works_. 

“And decided to stop at a car park afterward, I see.” Sherlock closes the newspaper he’s been perusing and looks pointedly at John. 

“How did you—”

“Oil slick in the print you left by the doorway and the faint odor of motor exhaust on the jacket you’ve just taken off, do try to keep up, John.”

John huffs indignantly as he sets the shopping on the kitchen table, and rescinds his opinion that he’d be sad to see Sherlock go. 

Sometimes he wants to throttle the man himself.

 

***

 

“Anything in the papers, John?”

John takes a swig of tea from his mug and straightens the paper in his hands. When they’re not running across London to fight crime, he enjoys a cup of tea (these days he automatically makes two) and a newspaper (often shoved into his hands by Sherlock with demands to search for crime goings-on). “Three dead after botched boat rescue,” he reads.

Sherlock throws him a dark look, and flops down on the sofa. Earlier, he’d paced the room with frenetic energy, but now he only curls into an irritable lump. “Nothing of importance?”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to tell Sherlock off that three deaths _are_ important, but it’s _Sherlock_ and John knows better by now. Instead, he says, “Look, there’ll be a case. We’ve just got to find it.”

And after the case, John knows there’ll be celebratory meals at a good Chinese or leisurely breakfasts across from Sherlock in the morning. 

It was only last week, after a series of teas, newspapers, dinners and cozy breakfasts that it struck John just how easily they’ve fallen into the camaraderie they now share. They’ve settled into something resembling comfortable domesticity, and John would give almost anything to stay this way, with Sherlock. 

He mulls over that thought again. _With Sherlock._

Suddenly, John wonders why his mission was never stamped with a time limit. If M doesn’t mention it, neither will he, and maybe he and Sherlock can continue playing doctor and detective for just a little longer.

“Well?” Sherlock demands, his imperious gaze sweeping over John from the comfort of the sofa. “Anything?” He’s toying with the harpoon again, jabbing it into the horrid floral wallpaper of their flat. Like he’s attempting to carve out teeth on the spray-painted smiley face.

John clears his throat to dispel his errant thoughts, although it’s really the sight of dried pig’s blood on the harpoon that’s more effective than his coughs. With a silent prayer of thanks that at least Sherlock’s not unloading bullets into the wall this time, he straightens out the newspaper and continues reading headlines aloud.

 

***

 

After another month, John pulls the bug from the skull and the camera from the bookcase, because his conversations with Sherlock are his business and no one else’s. He readies the lie that the equipment is broken (no surprise, considering they’re several years out of date and he hasn’t exactly been provided with cutting-edge technology), if he’s asked.

M never asks. 

His reports to M start dropping in size and quality, though he relates just enough detail to keep M interested, lest they assign someone else to Sherlock. At times the gaze from his employer seems almost _knowing_ , and it takes all his willpower not to fidget guiltily under that intense stare. Meanwhile, the money he’s earning from his surveillance on Sherlock is starting to feel dirty somehow, and every time he observes a little-known facet of Sherlock, he feels even worse. 

Still, John counts himself lucky to have been privy to them. 

They’re little things, like the way Sherlock winds his hands inside John’s pockets or under John’s jumper when it’s freezing in the flat. (“That’s bloody _cold_ , Sherlock,” John complains, but he doesn’t slap Sherlock’s hands away. Instead, he rubs his hands together for warmth and wraps them around Sherlock’s. Sherlock only murmurs an odd, surprised sound, his cool fingers burrowing deeper under John’s jumper like heat-seeking missiles and curling about John’s waist for his life-giving warmth.)

Or the way he’ll lean against John’s shoulder while they’re watching crap telly, a sure sign that Sherlock’s tired. It usually starts with his head knocking into John’s shoulder, and while most times he just lets Sherlock sleep, head pillowed in John’s lap, John takes it as his cue to bundle Sherlock off to bed when it’s a case-related, insomnia-induced fatigue, overriding any and all mumbled protests. 

And if John strokes Sherlock’s brow after, to calm him when the detective’s tossing and turning in his sleep, no one has to know. 

After all, he’s woken to Sherlock doing the same for him when he’s been in the throes of a nightmare (the same one, each time: _Your partner’s been compromised,_ the Service had said, _retire him upon completion of the mission,_ and he’d done what his country needed of him, only to discover that he’d killed an innocent man, that guilt had a way of creeping into his life and pervading his sleep, until he woke up screaming with blood on his hands that was no longer there), and the nightmares now come fewer and far between.

It’s these little things that slowly erode the walls around John’s heart, chip at the fine line between duty and the behemoth that is Sherlock’s presence, Sherlock’s endearing habits, _Sherlock_. 

He secretly files these moments under _Hidden Fragilities_.

 

***

 

The turning point occurs at the next crime scene Lestrade calls them in to investigate. 

It only takes an offhand word from Lestrade—which turns out to be a lead in the case they’re investigating—for Sherlock to jump up from his perusal of the corpse with a haphazard, “Coming, John?” and take off. By the time John’s caught up to him, he’s just near enough to see a suspect bolting from the scene, Sherlock haring after him. 

The ensuing scuffle results in Sherlock’s mobile (complete with resplendent array of photographs of the nude corpse) falling into the Thames. While the police apprehend the suspect, John can already spot Sherlock against the side of the bridge, contemplative.

He manages a “Sherlock!” as in, _Sherlock, there’s a bank at the end of the bridge where I can slide down to retrieve your mobile,_ but a sharp intake of breath is all the warning he has before the detective dives in to retrieve the damned thing.

Naturally, John dives in after _Sherlock_ , who sinks like a stone in his single-minded pursuit, oblivious to how much his dense designer coat weighs him down. 

By the time John’s dragged him to shore, Sherlock is miserable, shivering, and wet, and no amount of sliding his clammy hands into John’s pockets will keep him warm. It’s not much, but John manages to steal a shock blanket from the boot of a police car to wrap around Sherlock. 

He’s hustling them toward a cab when Lestrade hurries to catch up and calls after him, “Wait, I still need a statement from the two of you.”

“Yeah, it can wait until morning,” John replies, shoving Sherlock unceremoniously into a cab. “I’ve got to get this idiot home before he dies of hypothermia.”

A sigh of deliberation follows before Lestrade gives an understanding nod. “All right, go on then. We’ve got our man, anyhow,” he says, waving them off with the barest of grins.

Not a single word is exchanged between John and Sherlock during the course of the ride.

They’re halfway up the stairs to 221 B when Sherlock attempts his usual spiel of reassurance. “You can rest easy, John.” Sherlock thumbs nonchalantly at his mobile. “The data’s safe, and the photos I took of the crime scene are—”

There’s a solid thud of impact as John shoves Sherlock into the wall, pinning him. “The _data_ is safe? You could have died there in the river, and you’re worried about the _data_ being safe?” John growls, incredulous. He doesn’t mention the depth of the river, the speed of the current, how Sherlock could have drowned and the world would never know his brilliance because he had to rescue his fucking _phone_. 

Sherlock blinks at him. “I thought you—”

“No,” John bites out, cutting him off. “You thought _wrong_.” He can’t stop now that he’s started, because the storm of fears and worries that have been brewing inside him need a voice. “You don’t _get_ to sod off to god knows where for a case and leave me behind, just because you can. You don’t _get_ to risk your life for something trivial or to prove you’re clever.” 

As his voice rises in pitch and intensity, Sherlock only stares at him, mouth slightly agape. As if the idea of someone caring about him is a completely foreign concept. 

“Do you hear me?” John hisses, hands fisted tight in Sherlock’s collar. “Never again.”

“Going above and beyond the call of duty, aren’t you, _doctor_?” Sherlock appears to have collected himself, and his lips twist into a sneer. “What are you, my handler?”

“No, I’m just…” With a pause spanning a single breath in which the words _friend, partner, admirer_ flit through his mind (none adequate, all of them wanting), John says, “Your friend.” He wonders when Sherlock transitioned so smoothly from _mission objective_ into something far transcending what words could describe. 

If he had to give a name to what Sherlock’s become to him, the closest word that would encompass it all is 'everything'.

“I don’t…” Sherlock begins, as if to toss out an acerbic _I don’t have friends_ , before closing his mouth again. “Right, that…that’s good.” 

In the near darkness, John can’t figure out what Sherlock is thinking; he’s spent all his time observing Sherlock, knows his facial tics, the nervous twitches, the quirk of his mouth that counts as a shy smile, but right now…

Right now, Sherlock isn’t showing a tell at all. Except, perhaps, for the twin spots of crimson rising high in his cheeks, and the way he’s examining the floor with the same intensity as a crime scene but the awkwardness of a social situation he’s unsure how to navigate.

“If it’s all the same to you,” Sherlock starts, “I’d like to be more than—that is, if you’re amenable to—”

John reaches up greedily, hands tangling in those dark curls like he’s wanted to for so _long_ , and tugs Sherlock down for a kiss. “Yes,” he gasps against Sherlock’s mouth, lips pressing against his, tongue darting out to lick like he can’t get enough. John pulls back for the briefest of moments, to see if Sherlock will follow, and Sherlock does, surging forward to catch John’s lower lip in his teeth, nipping it harshly as John forces him back against the wall. 

He touches the tip of his tongue to Sherlock’s, just as the other man lets out a small, whimper. “Not here,” Sherlock breathes. “Mrs. Hudson.”

 _Ah._ There’s also the matter of their wet clothes, which are now uncomfortably damp, having barely dried during their cab ride. “Right,” John nods, leading them upstairs.

They half-stumble their way up to John’s room, where Sherlock strips off the rest of his clothes and towels himself off with the shock blanket. Meanwhile, John pitches his clothes onto the floor, kicking them beside the bed. They can dry on the floor, and alternatively, they’ll be there if he needs something to clean them both up after.

 _God_ , his body’s moving leaps and bounds ahead of his brain.

“John?” The sound of his name, cautious and hesitant in Sherlock’s voice snaps him out of his dazed fantasy, and it’s only now that he notices just how close Sherlock is. They’re near enough for the detective to wrap his arms around John’s shoulders if he wanted to, but Sherlock only stands there, willing John to navigate them to the next step through a small, hopeful smile. As the warmth of Sherlock’s breath ghosts over the cool skin of his neck, a shiver of anticipation thrills through John’s spine, and he decides to take the initiative, looping his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist and leading him to the bed. 

“Is this what you want, Sherlock?” he asks, gently tracing the carotid artery from which Sherlock’s pulse point springs and licking a wet stripe up Sherlock’s neck. He’s careful, though—nothing as overtly sexual as sliding his hand lower, in case Sherlock changes his mind. 

John receives only a wide-eyed look in return, before the nearly imperceptible nod. “All right,” he continues, moving forward to press a kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. He rolls them over in the bed, pressing Sherlock into the soft, rumpled sheets until Sherlock’s settled beneath him, all damp messy curls and alabaster skin, and John just wants to take and take and _take_.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock moans, writhing as John lays greedy, stinging kisses against Sherlock’s neck, licking and sucking a path down his chest. “ _More_.” His hands twine under John’s shoulders, legs crossing over John’s back, as if pressing up and into John will give him that desired _more_. As John reaches down to palm Sherlock’s growing erection, Sherlock shakes his head. “Not enough—I want—”

“Ah.” John nods, getting to his knees. “It’ll be easier if you lie on your stomach.” He guides Sherlock into a prone position, before Sherlock bucks John’s hands off defiantly and lies supine. 

“No, I want to see you,” Sherlock insists, maneuvering his thighs to trap John in the missionary position. 

With a sigh of acquiescence, John thumbs open the drawer of his bedside table and extracts a condom and the bottle of lubrication he keeps handy on nights when he desperately needs a wank but can’t afford to chafe from it. Repositioning Sherlock’s legs and sliding a pillow beneath his hips, John spreads some of the lube on his fingers, and circles the tight pucker of muscle.

“Will this hurt?” Sherlock inquires, the slight waver in his voice betraying the mask of indifferent calm on his face.

“A bit, yeah. At first.” John kisses the tip of Sherlock’s nose reassuringly. “But not for long.” He works the tip of his finger inside, stroking Sherlock’s erection as distraction, until the whole digit is in, and then he’s working another finger in, and another, a slow, insistent slide intent on probing, locating—

A shuddering gasp escapes Sherlock and his hips twitch involuntarily as John impacts his prostate. 

“Good?” John asks, tongue dipping into Sherlock’s navel, to taste, to tease. 

Sherlock nods, and tries to speak, but a half-formed name is at his lips when John nudges against his prostate again, and his cries turn incoherent to all but the most attentive of lovers. John twists his digits inside Sherlock, alternating between stroking, pressing, and impacting, whispering, “Yes, Sherlock, like this. Let me see you come undone.”

Sherlock’s breaths come faster, hotter against John’s neck, short puffs of air with strangled words, and just as John deciphers, “more,” and “right _there_ ”, Sherlock reaches up to twist needy, grasping hands into John’s hair. “I want you inside me,” he whispers fiercely. “ _Now_.”

John has to bite back a laugh—even in bed, Sherlock demands and cajoles in the same imperious manner. He rolls the condom over his cock and spreads some extra lubrication over it, slicking himself thoroughly. After a permissive nod from Sherlock, John presses inside of him, reveling in Sherlock’s sharp, indrawn breath, his eyes fluttering shut, and the low, wanton moan that issues forth. It’s hot and tight, and John stops moving for a moment, just to keep from coming inside Sherlock right then and there. 

“John?” Sherlock sounds almost worried, as if John doesn’t want this, doesn’t want _him_. 

“Yeah. Just. Give me a moment,” John manages to pant between breaths, his elbows braced by Sherlock’s head. When he’s got his breath back, he rocks experimentally against Sherlock, trusting him with his weight as he eases off his elbows. Then Sherlock cups his hands over John’s arse, literally _pushing_ John into him, again and again, and all self-control goes to hell as John starts rocking harder, thrusting, then slamming into Sherlock, smothering his cries with kisses.

“John. _John_ ,” Sherlock moans, the second uttering of his name drawn out, like a fervent prayer. “Wait, it—”

“Need to…teach you a…lesson,” John whispers forcefully. “You can’t just…wander off when you feel like it. Can’t leave me behind. What if I’m not there and you…” The thought of the alternative is too much to bear, and John drives his hips deep and hard into Sherlock to make his point, relishing the startled cry from his detective. “I won’t…I won’t lose you.”

“John.” A strangled gasp. “John, _please_.” 

He looks to Sherlock, whose knuckles have gone white from clutching the pillow, likely in an effort to restrain his cries, his teeth gritted. He’s trembling. 

John eases back, his thrusts growing gentler, less feral. “God, Sherlock…I’m sorry.” He tries to sit back on his knees and pull out, ashamed, before Sherlock seizes John by the arms, stopping him. He wraps his own arms around John’s shoulders, to reassure, to comfort.

“No, I should be the one who’s—well.” Sherlock pauses awkwardly and pulls him down for a kiss, which is about as much apology and acknowledgment of John’s fears as John knows he’ll get.

This kiss is slower, sweeter, just a gentle and warm touch of lips. In it is a sense of vulnerability, of trust, and a side of Sherlock that he will only ever show John, and John loves him for it, for all the moments he’s let John in, loves him even when he’s cold and caustic but _brilliant_ , loves him so much it hurts.

John freezes with that realization, unsure whether to be more horrified that he’s fallen in love with his mission objective, that his employer will probably murder him for it, or the revelation that he loves Sherlock. In that order. 

“John. You’ve gone tense. Is there a problem?” Sherlock’s frowning now, and John hears, rather than sees Sherlock’s expression in the low lighting. 

He laughs. Leave it to Sherlock to state the obvious, despite how much he hates doing so. “It’s nothing,” he says, twining his fingers between Sherlock’s to pin it back to the bed. “I was just thinking of how damned beautiful you are.” _On the inside, and out._

And when Sherlock’s palms slide into place over his hips, warm and soothing, all John can think of is being held by these hands not just for now, but for as long as they both shall live. 

“John,” Sherlock gasps, hips bucking desperately against John’s. “I’m close, I…”

“Easy there, breathe,” John instructs. He hikes Sherlock’s legs higher into the crooks of his elbows and pushes deep into him just as Sherlock cries out in a ragged sob, fingers digging into John’s shoulders, shuddering as he spills over his own stomach. 

John manages a few more thrusts before Sherlock’s muscles contracting around him sweep him along into an orgasm of his own, and he pulses deep within Sherlock, collapsing on top of him. 

He’s pressing light, feathery kisses along Sherlock’s neck, his cheeks, when Sherlock bats him away. 

“Tired,” Sherlock grumbles. But there’s the familiar quirk of his mouth that John calls a smile, before it breaks into a broad grin ( _Just for me,_ John thinks wistfully). He answers with a smile of his own, and slides behind Sherlock, the arm of his bad shoulder resting just over Sherlock’s waist, keeping the detective safely enveloped in his embrace.

Later, even as the soft, snuffling sounds characterizing Sherlock’s sleep emerge, John lies awake, staring unseeingly into space. _I want to stay,_ he thinks, _but I can’t, and you’re only a mission objective but you’ve become so much more and I love you but how is this going to work?_

He’s breathing in the scent of Sherlock (a heady mixture of sleep, sex and _life_ ), when the man in question turns in his sleep, head nestling under John’s chin, his breath a soothing warmth against John’s heart. And just like that, John’s made his decision: he’ll live this life, with Sherlock, and no amount of money can coerce him into continuing his espionage mission on this man. A small pit of fear settles in his stomach, however—M doesn’t seem the type to simply concede defeat and forget this.

Maybe they’ll run away. Bear the consequences, come what may. But that would be asking Sherlock to give up the puzzles, the crimes, and the people who’ve come to accept Sherlock for who he is, like Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade. 

John sighs. _It can all wait until tomorrow._ They can work through this together; Sherlock will think of something, and John will think of something, and with a bit of luck, their collective somethings might just be enough to get them out of this. 

He rests his palm lightly over Sherlock’s hip, listening to Sherlock’s breathing fill the silence between them, each breath an ebb and flow synchronized to the affection John feels pulsing in his chest.

 

***

 

As it turns out, things come to a head the next morning. And not at all according to plan.


	2. Not According To Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, things come to a head the next morning. And not at all according to plan.

 

***

 

“Good morning, John.”

“Morning,” John replies sleepily, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock mumbles and rolls over, but it isn’t until there’s an odd rustle behind him that John turns, noticing the other presence in the room, the source of the unexpected morning greeting. He grabs Sherlock’s blue dressing gown and throws it around himself self-consciously, careful to keep his hand near his beside table drawer, gun in-situ. 

“What are _you_ doing here?” Sherlock bites out, instantly alert from the initial change in John’s body language. “Post-coital celebrations were never your style.”

A nervous buzz of irritation courses through John’s veins at Sherlock’s declaration of last night’s activities. Still, his irritation is outweighed by surprise at encountering his employer here, and there must be some way of acknowledging his superior, even without standing at attention. He draws his legs together and sits up a little straighter on the bed, with a smart nod. The man acknowledges the gesture with a slight incline of his head, but this exchange doesn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock.

“You two know each other.” It’s not a question, because John knows Sherlock doesn’t _guess_. Right. 

“You could say we’re…well acquainted,” the man replies, relaxing into his chair and toying with his umbrella. 

Though John’s powers of observation aren’t as keen as Sherlock’s, even he can read the tension in Sherlock’s shoulders, the crease of irritation between his brows, and the casually acerbic attitude. Sherlock knows this man as well, and in a far closer capacity than John ever has. The flippant attitude and familiar forms of address all seem strangely reminiscent of rivalry between—

“I’d introduce you to my brother Mycroft, but since you already know each other, we can skip the pleasantries and get to the heart of the matter: _leave_ , Mycroft.” Sherlock flaps his hand dismissively.

—siblings. Wait, _brother_? John’s mind suddenly fixates on the word; his employer is Sherlock’s _brother_. Suddenly, things are beginning to make much more sense. He looks up, only to find Sherlock’s pointed stare fixed on him.

“You’re clearly not a past lover, from the way you’re straightening up in deference to him, so my brother must be your…” Sherlock’s voice trails off as he frowns. “John isn’t one of your operatives, Mycroft, stop trying to intimidate him with your _weighty_ presence.”

The silence that follows is uncomfortable, and John knows it’s only a matter of time before Sherlock’s intellect catches the lie of omission. 

A quick, indrawn breath. “You didn’t,” Sherlock hisses. At Mycroft’s barely perceptible shift on the chair, Sherlock barks out a harsh laugh. “Oh, it was _you_ all along. I should’ve known, this has your fat fingerprints all over it.”

“Sherlock. You know Mummy and I have always worried about you, and—”

“So you set me up with a flatmate to _spy_ on me?”

“It was for your own good. Admit it, since he’s come, you’ve had a companion, even a sounding board for your ideas at crime scenes. I fail to see how this arrangement hasn’t worked out for the best.”

“ _Arrangement_.” Sherlock spits the word out as if it’s poison, before his gaze rests on John, his eyes strangely vulnerable and bright. “John. Is this true?”

That Sherlock still wants his word on the matter, even after all this, makes John feel like his chest’s been hollowed out with guilt. It’s hard to breathe. “Sherlock, I…”

His hesitance is all Sherlock needs to confirm it, and for a moment there’s only hurt and betrayal written in Sherlock’s features before his expression closes off completely. 

“Look at you, all Queen and country,” Sherlock grinds out, glaring at John and throwing a vicious glance toward Mycroft at the word _queen_. He stands and wrenches his coat from the door. 

“Where are you going?” John asks. Sherlock can’t leave now, there’s too much to rectify, and Sherlock’s got to stay, to lend him the strength to tell Mycroft (if that’s M’s real name) that he can’t do this anymore, because he can’t spy on and rat out someone he’s come to trust and depend on and love—

“ _Out_ , John. I need some air. You ought to know, you’ve done it enough times before,” Sherlock says, pulling his scarf around his neck in sharp, jerky motions. “Or maybe you _would_ know, if you hadn’t been so busy having rows with chip and pin machines, or should I say, tête à têtes with my brother?” He descends the stairs at a brisk pace, fast enough that John can barely follow.

“No, Sherlock, please—” John staggers down the stairs after him, catching Sherlock’s sleeve and his gaze for a brief moment. All he registers from Sherlock’s expression is a mixture of hurt and misery that makes something clench tight around his own heart, before the sleeve is ripped from his grasp and the door slams in his face. 

Shoulders hunched in resignation, John makes his way back up the stairs. To his chagrin, Mycroft has settled comfortably in one of their armchairs and has even had the audacity to fix himself a cup of tea. 

“That was quite the turn-up, wasn’t it?” Mycroft says, taking a small sip.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at.” John’s voice is pitched low now, dangerous. 

“I’m not playing at anything, John. But _you_ are. At flatmates, I suppose. Lovers, even. If you can still call it playing.”

“How do you—” No, he doesn’t even need to ask. Mycroft and Sherlock are cut from the same gossamer cloth of logical reasoning. “Everything I did was for the mission, but I never intended…I never thought I’d…” _Fall in love with Sherlock_ , he thinks.

“It complicates matters, but it’s not an insurmountable issue, John.” Mycroft takes another infuriatingly slow sip of tea.

“But this will compromise the mission. Bias my reports. The things I’ve observed, documented. The people I’ve interacted with—”

“Yes, what about them?” Mycroft cuts in.

“Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. Stamford…” John trails off. 

“Think back, John,” Mycroft says encouragingly, waiting for John to catch up. “Think about what they’ve said.”

 _Mike Stamford? You’ve got use of your name again too, I suppose_ , John remembers saying when he ran into his old colleague in the park; remembers how perfectly inconspicuous Mike looked (too relaxed, even for a retired operative), sitting on a park bench during lunch hour. _When’d you leave the Service?_ he’d asked, thinking more _When’d the Service let you go?_

 _Not sure what you’re on about, mate,_ Mike had said. _But you’re welcome to come over for a Bond marathon sometime, if you’d like_. A wink. He’d thought Mike was trying to be discreet, when clearly the man was only trying to humor him. 

“Wait. So Stamford wasn’t an operative. That means…” John looks toward Mycroft questioningly, but there is a dearth of hints from the skillfully schooled features. Suddenly, it hits him: the casual introduction to Sherlock; the ease with which he’s settled into the other man’s life; the lack of stringent protocol in his monthly reports and the absence of consequences despite their dwindling quality— 

“Oh, god.” John rests his face in his hands. “There never _was_ a mission, was there? Just plain old John Watson, dismissed from active service but sent courtesy of Mycroft Holmes to look after his brother Sherlock. All _this_ ,” he asks, waving his arms at the flat incredulously, “all the false mission briefings and files, just to find a companion for your brother?” 

“Not just any companion, John. One that’s compatible with him, understands and empathizes with him. One who’s lived life the way he lives it, and stayed by him. You’ve seen his dark moods, when he hasn’t any cases. How many people do you think would willingly remain?”

John frowns at the word _compatible_ , like he’s some sort of vehicle or machine to be test-driven in order to determine his affinity with Sherlock. “All right. So what now?”

“You’re free to leave. Or stay, if you so choose. Your needs will be taken care of. And should you choose to remain in my service, I could start you on actual assignments.”

“And Sherlock?” John asks. His throat feels much too tight now. “What will happen to him?”

“I’m sure I can find someone else to accompany him, in time. But you don’t need to worry about that, do you?” Mycroft says airily.

The thought of someone else taking his place in Sherlock’s life, Sherlock’s _heart_ , makes something twist uncomfortably in John’s stomach.

John clears his throat. “I want to stay,” he says, “but no more reports. No more cameras, bugs, anything. Or I’ll leave.” Mycroft’s mildly raised eyebrow tells him they both know that’s not true. He forges on anyway. “How Sherlock lives his life, how we live our lives, is not your problem to solve anymore.” He resists the urge to swallow nervously. “Can I count on you to do that?”

The minute jump of Mycroft’s brow reminds John just who he’s speaking to. “Please,” he amends quickly. 

Mycroft pretends to deliberate this idea for a moment, before leaning on his umbrella decisively with both hands. “A satisfactory agreement, I suppose. And I assure you, you’ll still have full monetary compensation—”

“No.” John narrows his eyes. “We won’t be needing it.” Somehow, he feels a little stronger when he says _we_ , like Sherlock’s with him, and collectively they can stand firm against the force that is Mycroft Holmes. St Bart’s has offered him a position at their surgery, and he’s been turning it down for months, but now, he feels the income earned from that will be really his, unstained by the false mission he’s been undertaking.

Mycroft taps his umbrella against the floor as he rises from his chair. “I’ve said you’re very loyal, _very_ quickly. Be sure that your loyalty doesn’t waver, John. If you wish, you can even think of this as an exercise in reacclimatizing yourself to civilian life.” He turns to leave, but not before quietly adding, “And look after him, will you?”

This is likely his only glimpse into Mycroft’s underbelly of emotion, and John doesn’t take it lightly. He gives a solemn nod.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got somewhere else to be,” John says, hurrying past Mycroft down the stairs. He walks past the black car offered to him without a backward glance.

John will walk to Sherlock on his own two feet, and meet his consulting detective on his own terms.

 

***

 

 _Finding_ Sherlock is another matter entirely. A quick search of Regent’s Park yields nothing, nor is the cab to the morgue useful. It’s times like these when he wishes he still had access to his old equipment. Even a simple GPS installation into Sherlock’s phone would have done the trick. As it is, he’s reduced to texting Sherlock in a fit of low-tech desperation. 

_Where are you? – JW_

There’s no reply. John gives it ten minutes before sending another text.

_Sherlock, I always meant to tell you. But I never knew your brother was my employer. – JW_

It sounds like a flimsy excuse, and he sends _I’m sorry. Please come home. – JW_ before sliding the phone back in his pocket. Seconds later, he pulls it back out impulsively and is in the middle of typing _have you eaten_ before musing that Sherlock doesn’t eat when he’s on a case. 

A case!

If Sherlock was working on a crime scene as a distraction, surely Lestrade would be the one he’d contact first. John rings Lestrade, whom he’s labeled as one of _Sherlock’s Few Contacts_. The man has also become one of John’s contacts, what with the occasional pints at the pub and discussions about rugby matches. Things that make him feel less like a spy and more like a normal bloke again. “Hello, Greg?”

“Hullo, John. What I can I do for you?”

“Have you seen Sherlock? He stormed off this morning and hasn’t replied to a single text since.”

“Ah,” says Lestrade. “Had a row with the boyfriend, then?’ There’s an instant flare of annoyance on John’s end at how the entirety of the Yard assumes they’re…that. Though they wouldn’t be wrong, now, John supposes.

At his silence, Lestrade says, “Oh. _Oh_.” The second ‘oh’ is long and drawn out, as if something’s just occurred to him.

John waits patiently, neither confirming nor denying Lestrade’s suspicions, and when no answer is forthcoming, he puts on the most civil voice he can manage. “Look…Greg. We’re mates, aren’t we? Gone for a pint at the pub now and then, yeah?” He pauses, tongue darting out to swipe over his lip. “Can’t be classified information just to tell me where Sherlock’s gone.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence as Lestrade mulls that thought over. “Look, John, whatever’s going on between you and Sherlock, I don’t—”

Having just confirmed that Lestrade _does_ know something, John drops the pretense. “For God’s sake, he’s out there alone, who knows what he’ll be up to? I’ve got to find him. Please. Do you know anything?”

Another silence, followed by the shuffling of papers and faint echoes of phones in the background. Lestrade’s in the office, then. Finally, Lestrade sighs from the other end. “I asked him to investigate a crime scene in Knightsbridge. Crime of passion, but something felt _off_ —”

“Yeah, all right,” John says. “Knightsbridge. Thanks.”

As if sensing he isn’t going to get much further in the conversation, Lestrade says, “Listen, you didn’t hear it from _me_ ,” but John’s already down the street and flagging down another cab, asking for more details about the location of the crime, how long it’s been since Sherlock was there. 

Calculating if there’s any chance he could catch up with Sherlock once he’s left the scene of the crime, chances approaching nil with every second that passes.

 

***

 

As the cab pulls up to the crime scene, a sprawling maisonette, John can spot the obnoxious yellow DO NOT CROSS tape tangled across one of the entrances. Donovan and Anderson are there as well, looking irritated at _something_. Clearly Sherlock’s just finished here, but he’s nowhere in sight.

Hopes dashed, John rifles through his wallet to pay for the ride. Just as he plans to step out of the cab to ask the officers there about Sherlock, the door is jerked open and a body attempts to crowd him back inside. 

“Police! I need this cab!” the voice calls, flashing a familiar badge. The badge is Lestrade’s. 

The voice is not.

“Sherlock?” John sputters. He’s not sure whether he’s more shocked at this fortuitous encounter, or that Sherlock’s hailing a cab under the guise of a police officer with someone else’s badge. 

“John.” His name comes out strangled, choked off.

A flurry of dark coat and scarf before John catches the wrist of the would-be passenger. “Sherlock, _wait_.”

“What for?” The cold inflection in Sherlock’s tone _burns_ , John realizes. “I’ve heard your explanation and I can deduce the rest from there.”

“Look, can we just—” John stops as the officers are already starting to stare, and there’s the beginning of a cruel smirk on Anderson’s face. He wouldn’t put it past the man to make a tasteless joke about them having a lover’s tiff. “Can we talk about this at home?” he tries again, lowering his voice this time. 

“ _My_ home, John. Not yours.” The barb in that comment stings, but John holds fast to Sherlock’s wrist. 

“All right, let’s talk about this at your home.” Placation, capitulation, anything to make Sherlock stay. “Please.” John shifts over in the seat to allow room for Sherlock to slide in, his grip loosening but not released.

“Fine,” Sherlock replies, answer clipped and precise. As he slides in and shuts the door, John breathes a small sigh of relief, but the relief is short-lived when Sherlock tugs his hand out of John’s grasp. 

The rest of their ride passes in silence, broken only once by Sherlock’s blasé comment, “I should mention that I haven’t got any cash.”

John resists the urge to laugh. Some things never change.

 

***

 

“So?” John says, as he closes the door to their flat. “How’d it go?”

“What, the case? A simple matter, one even their plebeian minds could have solved, had they just applied themselves. I fear for the Yard’s future if they have to consult me on crimes like this one, I mean, _really_.”

“Go on. Impress me,” John nods encouragingly. Sherlock wants to show off, _needs_ to, and perhaps this will put him in a better mood to listen to what John has to say.

“Woman in her early forties, found in her kitchen with a glass of champagne in her hand, broken glass on the floor, probably when she collapsed. Quality of the champagne suggests it was a gift, but the note accompanying the bottle was typed on plain paper. A replacement, then, trying to emulate the style of the original liquor company’s letterhead. Clenched teeth and drool at the mouth suggests convulsions, backbone grossly arched, so, strong convulsions. Cyanosis at the lips indicates asphyxiation. Convulsions and asphyxiation, all pointing to strychnine poisoning, obviously in the champagne, and—” Sherlock stops suddenly, his eyes narrowed.

“You,” he points out, “are trying to distract me. Changing tack, now that you can’t get information about me from your normal routes of inquiry?”

John braces himself for the onslaught, because whatever euphoria Sherlock’s been riding on following the case, it’s been exhausted all in one go. “It wasn’t _all_ about getting information, Sherlock.”

“Please. ‘Tell me about your family. Your contacts on the police force. Who are your connections at the morgue?’”

“All right, it was at first.” John doesn’t bother to argue that he wasn’t _that_ transparent. “But then I…”

“Shall I continue? How about ‘When was the last time you ate? Have you slept?’ As if you really cared, when all you were doing was gathering enough information to run to my brother with your own exposé. How much of this was real, John? Or was it all a brilliant lie that Mycroft crafted? Is your name even John Watson, or are you a facsimile of a persona Mycroft’s stolen?”

Hearing the questions he’s asked when he truly started to _care_ thrown back in his face like taunts strikes a nerve, and the steel that’s always been firmly entrenched John’s spine makes itself known. “Sherlock, shut up and _listen_ to me,” John demands, slamming his palms into the wall behind Sherlock, trapping him.

Sherlock stops mid-sentence, his lips forming a surprised _o_.

“Yes, John Watson is my real name. I thought this was a mission at first, and I did collect data about you. It was my directive: to set up surveillance on you by posing as your flatmate.”

With a shrug carefully posed to look indifferent, Sherlock asks brittlely, “What changed?”

“Somewhere along the way of running all over London with you and following you to crime scenes, I’ve discovered you’re amazing. Fantastic.”

“I know I am,” Sherlock cuts in smugly.

“Even—” John qualifies quickly, “even if you don’t know the earth goes around the sun. And are allergic to shopping and cleaning. And shoot the wall of our flat.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but John quiets him with a quick squeeze of his hand. “I don’t want to give any of it up. Not _you_. Not ever. So yes, Sherlock, the data collection was the primary objective, but it stops there. Nothing else I’ve done with you was out of obligation.”

“What about last night?” whispers Sherlock, as if mere mention of the night is taboo. His eyes are suspiciously bright, and the tiniest crease forms in the middle of his eyebrows. John’s tempted to reach up and smooth it away, because he can’t bear the thought of Sherlock looking this hurt, this vulnerable.

“ _Especially_ last night,” John says firmly. “Everything I’ve done with you, I’ve _wanted_ to.” He takes Sherlock’s face in his hands, thumbs resting gently over the hollows of Sherlock’s cheeks. He’s suddenly struck with the desire to kiss him, kiss away the expression of doubt. To ease the anxiety from Sherlock’s expression he adds, “Besides, I’ve heard that a shag is infinitely more enjoyable when you love the person you’re with.” 

There. He’s uttered the thought he nearly quashed that night at their flat.

“And where did you hear that?” Sherlock asks disdainfully. “From one of your sordid espionage movies? _The Spy Who Shagged Me?_ ”

John sighs, unsure whether to award Sherlock points for originality or unwitting plagiarism. “Sherlock, the _point_ is—”

“I know what your point is.” Sherlock folds his arms over his chest, and John’s not sure whether he’s actually got his point across or not. He falls silent for long enough that John thinks he’ll have to re-initiate the conversation, when Sherlock suddenly says, “I think I know a confession when I hear one, John.”

Sherlock’s dancing around the subject now, and John huffs out a breath of frustration. “Figured it out then, have you? What’s my point?”

Sherlock leans forward, closing the space between their faces as his arms snake around John’s waist. “John,” he says, and there’s a purr curled around the velvet edge of his baritone, “I believe you’ve just told me you love me.”

Oh. So Sherlock _has_ managed to pick out the most important bit, despite John’s fumbling attempts to obfuscate it in other information.

John’s tongue darts out briefly to wet his lips. “Yes. Right. Good.” Monosyllabic words are all he can manage, because he’s apparently exhausted his mental faculties telling Sherlock Holmes that he loves him. In the most roundabout manner.

“If you’re quite done with taking Mycroft’s orders, I think I’ll give you a new directive. Either stand there and gape at me all night, or…”

“Or what?” John swallows audibly this time, as Sherlock’s hand slips under his shirt, rubbing a slow, warm circle over the small of his back.

“Or come to bed with me.”

“A difficult choice, I think,” John says with a smile, as he reaches up to press a kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. 

They never make it to the bed, but the sofa in their living room proves a sufficient substitute. John strips Sherlock of his clothes and there’s a mad fumbling to thumb his belt off, before he’s climbing on top of Sherlock, their mouths mashing together, small moans escaping. 

Sherlock slips his hands beneath John’s shirt, intending to tug it up and off, but John reaches for the switch on the lamp first. His hand’s slick with perspiration though, and he slides off clumsily. Sherlock catches his arm. 

“Why are you trying to turn off the light?”

John shrugs. There’s no reason to tell Sherlock that he’s embarrassed, of the bruises, misshapen scars, the battered remnant that is his body from a lifetime of espionage servitude.

“John,” Sherlock insists, tracing a thin line over his ribs. 

John shudders at the touch, giving in. “I…I’m not beautiful like you are.”

“You _are_ ,” murmurs Sherlock. “In all the ways that count.” He unbuttons John’s shirt slowly, mapping out the scars John’s gained protecting Sherlock, stroking them with soft, feather-light fingertips. Then he kisses the scar on John’s shoulder, dipping his tongue into the hollow of mangled skin, tracing the snaking tendrils where the shrapnel had been dug out. 

Sherlock slips his fingers under the elastic of John’s boxers, tugging them off ever so slowly as he strokes John’s half-hard cock. Suddenly, John’s so hard from Sherlock’s ministrations that it _aches_ , and the view of Sherlock stroking himself— simultaneously, leisurely—isn’t helping either. His detective leans forward to press a gently clinging kiss to John’s lips while smearing pre-come over his own fingers and cock. But when his fingers circle the edge of John’s entrance, John threads his own fingers through them, licking each of Sherlock’s delicately, like a sweet to be savored. 

His voice is rough with want when he whispers, “ _No_ ”; he wants Sherlock, wants all of him, wants him _inside_. 

Sherlock nods, repositioning them on the sofa, and when he presses his cock against John’s entrance, John reaches behind him with a firm grip, guiding Sherlock inside him, taking him in with a breathless, choked gasp. 

“ _Sherlock_ ,” he hisses, in pain, in pleasure, as Sherlock snaps his hips upward, moving in sync with John’s rocking motions, before they’ve worked out a rough rhythm that has Sherlock nudging John’s prostate with every thrust, and John moaning into his mouth, a tumble of words that sound like _yes_ and _more_.

John’s fingers scrabble for purchase at Sherlock’s shoulders as he rocks hard against him, then dig into the couch for support as Sherlock cups his hips and drives him down even harder. Between John’s murmurs of _more_ and _faster_ and _harder_ , Sherlock whispers fiercely, “You’re mine. No one else’s. Not my brother’s, not anyone, just mine.” He drives mercilessly into John, stomach rubbing against John’s erection. 

There’s a moment of perfect clarity, of _Yes, this is it, this is where I belong_ in John’s mind, just before Sherlock crushes John to him with a deep growl of “Mine,” and thrusts so brutally hard into his prostate that John sees blinding white, eyes rolling back into his head as he comes. A choked whimper escapes his throat, and he only manages to stay upright from Sherlock’s hand cinched tightly in his hair, the other raking a possessive trail down his back. 

Then Sherlock releases his grip on John’s hair, and John falls forward, gasping, caught between a sob and a moan because it hurts, but it’s perfect and it’s Sherlock who’s done this to him, Sherlock who’s filling him with his own rush of pleasure.

After the gentle rolling of hips, possessive love bites and lazy, unhurried snogging that constitute their afterglow, they stumble to Sherlock’s bed, because the sofa’s damp with sweat and come and they haven’t anything to cover themselves with. Sherlock manages to stay conscious long enough to clean them with an old shirt before snuggling against John and falling asleep. 

Propping himself up on an elbow, John watches the gentle rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest as he sleeps. He slides his fingers through Sherlock’s dark curls, wondering briefly how to categorize this moment, what he and Sherlock have shared; it’s a moment for his own memories, not for a report to M, not to be filed away for blackmailing purposes, and finally, John decides simply to call it _Mine_. And when Sherlock stirs briefly, his fingers looping around John’s wrist to pull him deep into their cocoon of warmth, John whispers one word into his ear, to reassure Sherlock that he hasn’t misplaced his trust in him. 

_Yours._

 

***

 

“John.”

“Mmhn.” John keeps his eyes closed, basking in the warmth of Sherlock pressed against him. He feels Sherlock’s lips brush his ear. Perhaps he’ll seduce John with an erotic passage of French. Or perhaps he’ll demand breakfast and boot John out of the bed to make it. Both are equally likely.

“You do realize if you want to stay here, you’ll have to stop being Mycroft’s lapdog.”

John blinks. Not only is it _not_ an erotic passage of French, it’s an ultimatum. “Yes, all right, I got that the first time.”

Sherlock nudges him again. “John?”

“Don’t worry.” John rolls his eyes. “I’ve already refused the rest of his money.” He’s surprised at Sherlock’s insistence on this matter, considering how much he revels in frittering Mycroft’s resources. Reaching out and tracing the line of Sherlock’s collarbone, he adds, “Now that we’ve cleared that matter, are you going to kiss me, or are you going to sulk all day?”

“I do not _sulk_ ,” Sherlock says, lip curling in distaste, but he captures John’s warm mouth with his all the same.

 

***

 

Without the backing of Mycroft’s finances, things are a bit touch and go for the first while, but they’ve got enough to make a go of it. John retains enough medical knowledge for him to start working at St Bart’s, and it’s only later that he suspects Mycroft’s involvement in setting him up with the job. He says nothing about it to Sherlock, however—this job is _his_ , and besides, he no longer reports to Mycroft (though John sweeps the flat for new bugs and cameras in case Sherlock’s brother is still spying on them).

If Sherlock suspects it himself, he doesn’t mention it to John.

Later, when Sherlock tells him he has a Mind Palace for categorizing information, John laughs and says, “Brilliant,” because he’s got his own Mind Library, which has only grown since the start of his mission. Besides _The Cases_ and _Sherlock’s Few Contacts_ , it’s where he’s catalogued the minutiae of Sherlock’s habits and mannerisms, his gestures and his smiles. 

And right now, Sherlock’s seated in his chair, giving John a _Make Me Tea_ sleeve tug and his shy, cautious _I Love You_ smile.

“Love you too,” says John, as he pushes a mug of hot tea into Sherlock’s hands. He leans over to press a kiss into the mess of dark curls.

As Sherlock laughs softly and laces his fingers through John’s, John tightens their grip, as if by doing so he can hold onto Sherlock forever. He knows people in his old line of work hardly ever get happily ever afters, but after this second chance at life—at love, even—if they don’t get one, it won’t be from lack of trying.

John sniffs the air, suddenly detecting the faint odor of expired organs in the fridge. “Sherlock. What did I say about keeping morgue bits separate from tonight’s dinner?”

Sherlock harrumphs, but when his grip on John’s hand doesn’t falter, John realizes that while this will be very trying _indeed_ , it will be worth every moment.


End file.
